Page 20 of Brick’s Anchor

"You're dead on your feet," he says. "When's the last time you actually slept?"

I try to remember. Can't. The days in that warehouse blurred together. I slept in fits and starts, never fully, always listening for footsteps or voices or the sound of the door opening. "I don't know."

"Then you need sleep."

"I need a lot of things. Sleep isn't top of the list."

"What is?"

"To stop feeling like this." The words come out before I can stop them. Raw. Honest. Too much.

Brick's expression doesn't change. "Like what?"

"Like I'm broken. Like I'll never be clean again. Like my body isn't mine anymore and I don't know how to get it back." I'm saying too much. Telling this stranger things I haven't even articulated to myself yet. But I can't stop. "Like every man I see might hurt me. Like trust is a stupid concept I bought into and paid for with a week in a cage. Like—"

My voice cracks. I press my hands over my face, try to pull myself together, fail completely.

"Come on," Brick says quietly.

I look up at him through my fingers. "What?"

"Come with me. There's something I want to show you."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Yes, you are. Because sitting here spiraling isn't helping and you need to move before your brain eats itself."

"That's not how brains work."

"You want to bet on that right now?"

He's right. I hate that he's right. But sitting here is making everything worse. The thoughts are getting louder, the panic more present, the feeling of wrongness more overwhelming.

I stand, and the leather cut shifts around my shoulders. I still haven't taken it off.

Brick heads toward the back of the clubhouse. I follow because I don't know what else to do. Because following is easier than deciding. Because some part of me, the part that's not completely destroyed, trusts that he's not leading me somewhere dangerous.

We go through the kitchen, past the bar, down a hallway I haven't been in yet. He opens a door that leads outside to a back area I didn't know existed.

It's a courtyard. Small. Enclosed by the building on three sides and a high fence on the fourth. There are chairs scattered around, a fire pit in the center that's not currently lit, strings of lights overhead that cast a soft warm glow over everything.

And it's quiet.

Actually quiet. Not warehouse quiet where every sound is a threat. Not common room quiet where people are trying not to disturb each other. Just peaceful quiet. The kind where you can hear yourself think without the thoughts becoming overwhelming.

"We use this for private meetings sometimes," Brick says. "When the common room gets too loud. Or when someone needs space but doesn't want to be completely alone."

I walk to the center of the courtyard. Look up at the sky. There are stars. Actual visible stars despite the city lights. I haven't seen stars in a week. Haven't seen anything except that terrible room and the warehouse ceiling and the inside of vehicles.

"Why did you bring me here?" I ask.

"Because you looked like you needed air. And space. And something that isn't inside."

I turn to face him. He's standing by the door, giving me the whole courtyard, not crowding my space. "You barely know me."

"I know enough."

"You don't know anything about me. My name, maybe. The fact that I have terrible taste in boyfriends. That's it."